


nobody reads anything rated t

by thekid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love is complicated and unreliable, M/M, Unrequited Love, how could this happen to me, i contributed to the fandom you fuckers, i made my mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekid/pseuds/thekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish knows that his father has kept his past a secret, but a visit from a mysterious woman finally prompts him to search for answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nobody reads anything rated t

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alanad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alanad/gifts).



“Dad, who was that?”  


“Hamish, go back to bed.”  


Dad locked the door and turned for the first time to face Hamish who stood at the top of the stairs. Although Hamish had just been sleeping, his gaze held the quality of sharp alertness that was rather unnerving for his age.  


Hamish did not want to go back to bed. He wanted to know why just a few minutes ago he had heard a woman’s voice from his bedroom. Obviously it wasn’t a romantic visit for his father, who since Hamish could remember had never actually brought a woman home despite flirting with them on several occasions. Not that any of them hadn’t been willing, Dad just never seemed interested. Most likely he flirted out of habit. _Good ___, Hamish thought, the two of them were perfect as they were. They didn’t need anybody else, despite tradition psychology’s insistence on the necessity of a ‘mother figure’.  


Surprise visit. Also Dad hadn’t been happy to see her, whoever she was. There was no tea on the coffee table. Of course there was no tea, they didn’t even sit down (leather cushions not depressed enough), but rather remained standing to…what? Argue? Were they arguing? He hadn’t been able to hear any of what they had said, having been asleep for probably the majority of the encounter and only able to hear the last remnants of their tone from his bedroom.  


Hamish directed his gaze toward the door. Was there really nothing to observe there? Yes, apparently. The carpet wasn’t plush enough to leave a distinctive foot print. There were no items dropped, accidentally or intentionally. The room smelled neither of perfume or product.  


Dad heaved a sigh and brought his right hand up to rub at his eyes rather characteristically.  


“Hamish, please,” he softened his words, “I know you can’t help it, just…just this once you have to stop.”  


Hamish bit his lip. He almost didn’t press the matter.  


“Please Dad, who was that?” Hamish understood the importance of please. It was a social convenience, one that people often seemed to act out but not always mean.  


“No, Hamish, go to bed,” but instead of cornering Hamish up the stairs, Dad went to the kitchen to make tea. Upset. Shaken. Emotionally vulnerable though. He performed the act of tea making admirably methodically. Dad and his tea; his go to, his calmer.  


Hamish descended the stairs and stood at the doorway of the kitchen. If he pressed the issue, the likelihood of getting what he wanted (information) was in the high seventieth percentile. Was that cruel?  


 _Yes, he’s in a state of emotional disturbance ___, Hamish thought. But how would Hamish even start?  


Fact: there had just been a woman in their apartment (an apartment slightly too nice for the combined income of his father’s army pension and clinic hours. Still unsure of where the extra money comes from, need more data). It was too late for the visit to have been anything but personal. It had been made without romantic intent. Probably a figure from Dad’s past, which Hamish knew embarrassingly little about (Dad was almost as stubborn as he was).  


Limiting down to four options. Play the game. Forget this is your father. Say the right thing.  


“I know that you’re not my biological father.”  


Steady hands stopped. The process of making tea no longer executed. The world has come to a standstill.  


He had tried. He hadn’t said ‘I know that you’re not my real dad’. That was both incorrect and damaging. He had said the right thing. But it had been very wrong.  


 _A bit not good ___. It was an old saying, Hamish could tell, even the first time he had heard Dad use it. Hamish had just deduced that one of his classmates, Alice, fancied another student, Peter. Dad had been having what Hamish’s friends called “grown up talk” with some other parents (to Hamish, it was “perfectly easy to follow conversation”) when his dad saw Alice run off mortified and Peter stand there dumbfounded, Hamish standing boldly in the middle of it all.  


Dad hadn’t said it cruelly. Although his chastising had carried weight, there was definitely a fondness behind it.  


“You have a gift.” Dad had said after he had explained why it was rude sometimes, his hands on Hamish’s shoulders, on one knee so they were eye level, “One day you’re going to do amazing things with it. Brilliant things.”  


It had been something that he had said before. That he had said often, but not often enough to just become words.  


“Then why does it make other people uncomfortable?” Hamish asked.  


“Most of us only see people,” Dad had said, almost as if he had been rehearsing these lines in his head, and had just been waiting for Hamish to ask, “but you see _and ___observe. People get scared when they’re observed.”  


Hamish gulped. He could swallow back his guilt for now.  


“How long have you known,” Dad said quietly. He was looking down at his hands. He put the box of tea down.  


Everything was quiet.  


Dad turned around and Hamish shrunk. Tired. He was tired. Sad too. Why was he sad? _Please tell me why you’re sad ___, he wanted to say. _I’m sorry. You’re still my dad. Please tell me the only answers I can’t figure out on my own ___.  


Dad sighed. His hands picked up the tea leaf box. He continued the ritual. The world began to turn once more.  


Dad didn’t say anything as he picked up the boiling kettle. Typical Dad; collecting his thoughts over tea. He poured out two mugs, as Hamish had predicted but hadn’t been one hundred percent certain. He walked Hamish out to the sitting room, setting Hamish’s mug down. Hamish sat in the leather armchair and Dad took the couch opposite it.  


Hamish held his mug with both hands, which kind of hurt his palms. He watched as his father got comfortable, or perhaps as comfortable as he could get. He didn’t seem very comfortable at all actually. In fact he seemed almost nervous. On edge? A little apologetic too. No not apologetic, that doesn’t seem right. Regretful.  


“I meant to tell you when you were a bit older, but I should have known that you would never have let it sit for that long.” he started, smirking a bit at Hamish. Hamish hesitantly grinned as well.  


“To be honest, I’m surprised you hadn’t brought it up yet.” he leaned back in his chair and let out a puff of air, “I had actually hoped, I guess it was a pretty stupid hope, I was more than willing to believe, that you just didn’t know.” His legs crossed, which made him look a bit sturdier to Hamish. He’s accepting it now, soldiery customs being put at the back of his mind.  


“Curious you, always needing to have all the answers.” Hamish let him talk. He was warming up for something. Although he was a straight forward man, he had his moments of sentiment. Hamish continued to stare and hold his scorching mug.  


“You’re just like him, in that way.” Dad turned to Hamish. Hamish debated between waiting and hoping he would say more about the particular subject, or asking a direct question.  


“Who is ‘him’?” The latter.  


Obviously Dad was talking about his biological father. Would he notice Hamish knew? It was an easy deduction, one that any ordinary person could make.  


“Your father.” he answered right on cue. Almost as if he had expected the question, had led him up to it. Had wanted Hamish to ask.  
Hamish chose to wait.  


“Your father was…” Dad’s fingers went from holding his mug steadfastly, to resting delicately on the top, “he was extraordinary.” He wasn’t looking at Hamish anymore.  
“He was the best man I ever knew.”  


Dad didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then he looked back at Hamish with a proud seriousness.  


“He was like you. He could deduce people. The first time we met,” he laughed and began shaking his head slowly, “the first words he ever said to me were ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’. He knew I had been a soldier, I had served in combat, that my bloody limp was psychosomatic, all from four seconds of observing. What I was, what I’d done, all laid out for him. Everybody was laid out for him. A lot of people…they didn’t believe that he was really human. I mean, that he had a heart. But I knew he did. He proved it to me so many times. He still proves it to me with you.”  


He was smiling so brightly. Smiling for an unknown man, for himself, for Hamish. Hamish wished that Dad had told him about this before. Had told him about this often.  


“We used to live in London. In this funny apartment, it was like him. It was like living in a different world, living with him. It’s hard to explain. He…almost, commanded the city. It came alive for him.”  


Another silence. Had Hamish’s hands grown used to the heat, or had the cup gotten cold? Irrelevant, yet everything seemed to be in clearer focus. Every detail was being recorded.  


“He saved my life.” Dad said factually. A bit reverently. Hamish wondered how-press a different time.  


“He went away once.” Dad’s face darkened, “I thought he would never come back. It was…” he trailed off. Hamish tried his hardest not to make any noise. He could only watch the steam from Dad’s mug try to meld itself with the air. Hands have gotten used to the temperature then; Dad’s mug is still hot.  


“But he did. Against all odds. He came back and it was a miracle.”  


Another time, Hamish hoped. He wanted to know every story about Dad and his father.  


“But, even after that, although things had changed, I still hoped. I hoped that we could have lived like that indefinitely. We lived dangerously, but neither of us could live any other way. It was one of the only things we had in common,” Dad looked down at his mug. He had failed to take a sip. His fingers moved from perching on top of the cup, back to holding the sides firmly.  


“Someday, Hamish,” which made Hamish think that Dad was a bit more conscious then he let on, “I’ll tell you everything. But for now, you’ll have to trust me.”  


He looked into Hamish’s eyes. Hamish saw fatherly protection, a plea that he understand, and a little bit of pain. Hamish nodded.  


“Your father was killed shortly after you were born. Your mother had to go into hiding. I took you in, and it was the best thing I’ve ever done with my life.”  


He was quiet. Hamish weighed his options again.  


“Why did you raise me?”  


There was an acceptable pause that was too short to be dramatic.  


“Because I loved him.”  


Impossible, Hamish thought. He had never observed Dad even remotely interested in men. Would friendship really run that strongly though? Were they related? Were they brothers maybe?  


“How?”  


Dad sighed.  


“It’s complicated, Hamish.”  


“Did he love you?”  


He hesitated.  


“Yes, I think so.”  


Hamish took this in.  


“My mother?”  


Hamish watched as a variety of emotions passed through his father.  


“The woman.” he finally responded. After a bit he gestured toward the door.  


Hamish nodded.  


“Who was she?”  


“Irene Adler. The female counterpart to your father. She was different though, she intentionally hurt people. She went with whatever was best for her. She had a heart, but it only beat for one person.”  


“And that was-“  


“Yes.”  


“What did she want tonight?”  


“You.”  


Hamish for a second imagined an adult female version of himself arm in arm with Dad. Highly improbable. The situation was most likely completely different.  


“I won’t let her have you.” Dad started out, resolve in his tone, but he checked himself, “Unless, that’s what you want.” he said a bit quieter, but still perfectly audible. He opened his mouth again and closed it.  


“She also lived a dangerous life. It was like we were all playing a game. Well, I felt like it was a game to her and your father. When your dad died, she had to disappear too. It’s…something to think about. I think she would have raised you had it been possible.”  


Hamish nodded again. The simple gesture seemed to physically hurt his father, although he quickly returned to neutrality. Hamish opened his mouth to correct his mistake.  


“Listen Hamish, I know…I know that sometimes I don’t always understand you. And your mother would be able to…understand you in…the respects that…where I can’t,  


“No Dad, I don’t, I want to live with you, please don’t…” Hamish had never seen his dad struggle so heartily for words. It made Hamish feel even guiltier.  


Dad breathed heavily and once again brought his right hand up to rub at his eyes.  


“When your dad left,” Dad began and Hamish thought he was starting a new topic, “I was in a bad place. I almost didn’t make it though. And when he died,” Dad ceased rubbing his eyes, “I thought I had nothing. But I was wrong. I always seemed to be wrong when it came to your father. I owe him so much. Almost as much as I owe you.”  


Dad removed his hand and placed it steadily back in his lap, holding his tea. He gazed into Hamish’s eyes.  


“I just want you to be happy, Hamish. I love you more than anything else in this world.”  


“I know, Dad, and that’s why I don’t want to go,”  


It was quiet except for the dull white sounds of their apartment. Dad cleared his throat and adjusted his position. He blinked several times.  


They were both smiling.  


“So, did you name me then?”  


“What?”  


“My name, it’s your middle one, but it’s one of our relative’s names two generations back for you, three for me. I assumed you wanted to continue to honour them.”  


“Oh, no,” Dad was laughing now, “your father named you Hamish.”  


Hamish blinked.  


“Why?”  


“Well it was partly because of a joke that I didn’t think he was even paying attention to let alone going to remember, and partly sentiment, although he never would have admitted that I’m sure.”  


“Oh.”  


Everything was silent again, but it was not as tense as before. It was almost comfortable. Almost.  


“Dad?”  


His dad gave him a warning look. There was a fragility behind it.  


“Yeah Hamish.”  


“How did…my father die?”  


Hamish expected Dad to bring his hand up again and commence rubbing his eyes before choking out a few words. But Dad just sighed and remained silent.  


“Your father lived as a great man. He died a good one.”  


Somehow Hamish knew he wouldn’t continue. He watched his father become entirely entrenched in his thoughts. He watched as Dad finally did bring his hand up to his face. 

So he sat with him, and though it wasn’t for the first time, but certaintly not a common occurrence, was completely unsure of what to do. He watched rather than felt his mug grow cold, and observed the tail of smoke emanating from Dad’s cup grow fainter and fainter.  


Hamish opened his mouth, closed it, then abruptly got up in his wrinkled pyjamas, stood for a brief second, and went to sit steadfastly next to his father, their thighs barely touching. He leaned against him and with the grace of a child tried to wrap his arms around his dad’s torso. Dad quickly adjusted his body to wrap around Hamish’s, holding him tightly without the hesitance Hamish had originally had.  


Hamish had never seen his father cry. At least not out of sadness. But he didn’t look up as he heard a few quick breaths pierce the air. Hamish was almost scared, but the choked and frightening noises of a soldier losing control quickly stopped. The hand came down to stroke Hamish’s hair instead. Hamish’s clenched fingers loosened around Dad’s jumper. The sounds of the house hushed him to sleep.  


John Watson looked at his son and worried about his past finally returning.

**Author's Note:**

> you know what sucks. writing descriptions. there is literally no way to go about that without sounding like a cheesy book back. well here it is. i finally contributed and it isnt even good. i can feel like 25 masculinity points draining from my bloodied corpse. there they go. down the rabbit hole.
> 
> the gay rabbit hole.


End file.
